Bloody Mary Flint
by The Dairy Queen
Summary: In the far corner of the Faithful Bride, a man sat hunched over a table, a halfdrunk bottle of rum clutched in his hand... What she found arresting was the worn coat he wore, which must once have been the very fine uniform of a Navy officer.


**A/N Well, this is my first serious Pirates of the Caribbean fanfic. Some of you might have read my parody, The Return of the Guy Who Said ****"No Fair.****" This is nothing like that. For now, it is a oneshot, but if people like it and I'm in the mood, I just might write more of it. So, please read and enjoy, and I strongly appreciate reviews. Thanks. P.S. Most of this I don't own, yadda yadda...**

**  
Bloody Mary Flint**

Drink was poured freely in Tortuga. It was a mass of unchecked desire, and unhindered greed. Bloody Mary didn't care. Striding through the mass of drunks and whores, she moved with a purpose, if only to get through the next moment of her life. Her blue coat swung about her long strides. No one knew where she got that Navy officer's coat. It was widely whispered that she was an escaped murderess from England, sent to a penal colony in the Caribbean when she murdered an officer and stole his uniform to hide her prison rags as she made her escape. So it was whispered. Her face was grim. That no one bothered her suited her fine. Bloody Mary stopped before the Faithful Bride tavern. She hesitated a moment. Her fatigue forced her to enter. Once inside, she was assaulted by a wave of noise and near hysteria from the rowdy patrons gathered there. Keeping to the wall, she found a seat in the back of the tavern. Settling into a battered wooden chair, she closed her weary eyes and dreamed.

* * *

"Mary! Hurry lass!" 

Mary Phillips looked up from the Northern Irish countryside. Several meters ahead, her mother, Catherine, had stopped walking to wait for her. Beyond walked her father and young brothers. They had more than a mile to walk through this wild land from the nearest mail carriage stop to Haveral Glen, the manor of her mother's cousin, Lillith. At that moment, all Mary really wanted to do was get to the manor and collapse on the nearest large object and sleep for many hours. But something forced her to stop. The land called to her, stirring something in her soul. The horizon was wide and open, so unlike London, which had come to feel so closed and cramped to her. Here the green seemed to envelope you like the sea, but at the same moment made you feel untouched, free. It was beautiful. Her eyes were hypnotized by it, so that she could only faintly hear her mother's voice penetrate the calm, telling her again to "come along," fatigue heavily lacing her voice. Mary finally turned her gaze back to the road and, picked up her old valise and hurried after her mother.

"I can't always look after you Mary!" her Mum scolded once Mary reached her. "At almost sixteen you should have some sense in that head o' yours."

Making sure that her daughter was once again moving along, Catherine Phillips continued forward at a brisk pace, anxious to reach the home of her cousin before dark, which was already approaching. Behind her, Mary smiled. She found it amusing that, since leaving the ship that had transported them to Ireland, her mother had begun to lapse into her Irish accent, not used since her childhood. Catherine had been born in Haveral Glen, but came to England when she met John Phillips, the son of a sailor. She had not seen her family in many years.

As the sun set beneath the hills, Haveral Glen came into view from across a brook. Mary glanced at her mother. Tears had welled up in the woman's eyes as she looked at her home for the first time in almost two decades. Candles lit the windows, as if waiting for them. A figure appeared in the doorway. Dropping her baggage, Catherine broke into a run, past her husband and children, her hair flying away as the years left her, careless and seventeen again. At the house, she threw her arms around her dear cousin, leaving her family to hurry after her.

* * *

"I hope you will all be comfortable," said Lillith, matron of the household since her husband's early death. 

A short while after their initial arrival, Mary and her family gathered in the kitchen of the main house of the manor. The surrounding land comprised of fields and stables for the horses and other animals. A pleasant fire burned in the cooking fireplace, a tea kettle warming on the bright flames. Steam began to seep from the spout. Lillith removed several teacups from a shelf and set them before her guests, before pouring the tea.

"There you are," she said. "This should warm you up a bit."

Mary took a sip and the warmth poured into her. The wooden door opened its old iron hinges. Mary looked up. A young man of about twenty or so stood in the doorway. He was dressed in workman's clothes, plane fabric in both his white shirt and brown breaches. They were mud splattered as if he'd been working long that day. He was not tall, only about 5'8" or 5'9"but he had a strong build. His eyes were hazel under long lashes and dark brow, and his mouth was full and Cupid's bow.

"Ah!" cried Lillith. "There you are. I was about the worry about you! This is my nephew."

Mary could only faintly hear what they were saying. Was there something strange in this Irish air? She feared a resurgence of consumption, which she had almost died from that winter. She felt light in the head, and could not take her eyes from his. They swallowed her whole. Far, far away, she heard her mother speaking to her.

"Mary?" Her mother was saying in an exasperated tone. "Have you not been paying attention? This is Paul. Lillith just said that he's enlisting as an officer in the King's navy."

Paul smiled a Cheshire cat grin and to Mary his smile lit the whole of Ireland.

"Paul," Lillith said. "This is Mary."

"Hello, Mary," he said. His eyes had not left hers.

In that moment, Mary fell in love.

* * *

_Several months later_… 

Lieutenant Paul Flint stood on the deck rail on the _Dependency _with his young bride, Mary Flint. Mary breathed in deeply the salty sea air, and reveled in the open sea. Leaning over the rail and looking out over the sea, she felt wonderfully at home. Paul, meanwhile, looked positively green, and gripped the rail tightly. Mary looked at him and laughed.

"How do you expect to sail aboard a ship if you get sea sick just stepping on one?"

Paul smiled grimly. "Do you want to take my place, Mrs. Flint?"

Mary put her arm about him and kissed him lightly. "Oh no, just Mary, love, and I think perhaps you might have chosen the wrong profession."

"If you're trying to tell me you've changed your mind, it's a bit late. We are more than halfway to Port Royal, and I doubt the Captain will want to turn around."

Mary laughed. "Don't worry; I wouldn't miss this for the wide world."

She gently caressed his face. A glimmer of concern came into her eyes, and she frowned. She brushed his light hair from his forehead, sticky with perspiration. His eyes closed. Now she saw a sheen of sweat on his face. How odd, since she felt chilled by the Atlantic air. His face was too white, even as he was usually pale.

"Love?" Mary squeezed his shoulder. He did not stir. "Paul!" she said more loudly.

He opened his eyes. He smiled at her drowsily. "What is it, My Mary?"

Her concern did not leave her. "You should rest. You look unwell, my love."

He could only nod. This frightened Mary more so, for he was usually apt to be stubborn, even with his bride. Kissing his forehead tenderly, she guided him to the stairwell leading below deck.

* * *

"Get the hell away from me!" Paul screamed, rage filling his voice. He strained upright in his bunk, his arms thrashing widely. Two sailors held him down, kept him from bolting from the bunk. His navy uniform was disheveled and soaked through with sweat and water the sailors had poured on him as they tried in vain to lower his burning fever. He stared wild and wide-eyed into the room, seeing nothing in his delirium. 

"Would someone get the bloody doctor?" one of the sailors shouted.

Paul struggled to wrench from there grasp. The veins on his neck bulged, and his face grew red from exhaustion. His body seized, and for a moment he did not move, his thin body arched and rigid. Then his body went limp, and with a shuddered breath, he fell back to the bunk. He was collapsed and crumpled, his body broken. He looked out through half-closed eyes, glazed over and uncomprehending. His mouth sagged, and his breath came in haggard gulps.

Finally the doctor came. He put a hand to Paul's forehead. He turned grimly to the sailors and his assistant.

"His fever needs to be brought down immediately," the doctor said. "I fear his blood is too hot. The lad needs to be bled."

The doctor perched next to Paul on the bunk, and shoved aside his blankets. Pulling up his sleeves, the doctor exposed Paul's sickly white forearms. Slowly, the assistant handed the doctor four leaches. He placed them on Paul's arms, and they began to drain him. His breathing slowed and his body relaxed. He eyes closed and he sank into sleep.

In the corner of the cabin was another person. She sat curled on the floor, shaking. Her head in her hands, Mary Flint wept uncontrollably.

* * *

Late into the night, wind and rain pounded the ship, rocking the _Dependency _back and forth against the rough waters. Black clouds blotted out the moon and the stars. Deep within the ship, Mary knelt beside her husbands bunk. She was asleep, her hand holding his tightly. Many hours had come after the doctor had gone, and she waited for him. But soon she slipped into sleep herself. 

Early in the morning Mary felt, on the edge of her conscious, Paul's fingers close around her's and grip them feebly. Her eyes blinked open. He was awake, and looking sorrowfully at her. Sorrow only in leaving her. He smiled.

"Mary, My Mary," he whispered.

"You're awake," she said softly, hope filling her voice. She lifted her hand to his face. "I feared…"

"I'm sorry, Mary."

"Why are you sorry? You did nothing to apologize for. You're better now…"

"No," he sighed wistfully. "I have to go."

Mary's eyes filled with tears looked into his dear face, his beloved blue eyes whose light was beginning to fade. "Don't leave me without you." Tears began to spill down her cheeks. Her body trembled.

"Don't cry, My Mary." Paul shakily brought his hand to her cheek and brushed away her tears with his thumb. "I…" His eyes dimmed, his focus fixed on a point beyond her that she could never reach. His arm dropped like lead.

Out side, the rain ceased. The wind stood breathless.

* * *

Lieutenant Flint was buried at sea. Hearing Mrs. Flint's wailing sobs, the doctor found his patient dead. The body was wrapped in linens and lowered into the water, where it sank beneath the dark, dark surface. After the funeral, the people aboard ship returned to their own duties. All save one. 

Mary stood by the ship rail long after the rest of the world said goodbye to Paul Flint. She stared bitterly into the unforgiving sea, staring so hard as if willing the sea to give the young widow her young husband back. Tears stained her face, but she could not cry anymore. In her hands, she clutched his blue Navy coat.

* * *

_Two years afterwards…_

Bloody Mary opened her eyes. She did not know how much time had elapsed. Her previous thoughts still haunted her mind. She could not tell if she had been dreaming or simply remembering. They so often melded into one. She had heard the story too many times. Her eyes traced the room. The same people filled her vision. The same greedy, disgusting, flawed people looked back. She glared at them, repulsed by this lot of people that seemed to fill the world. Was beauty gone, love replaced by loathing? In all the places she'd been, it was always the same people she saw. She stood up to leave. She could not stand another moment in this place. Then, something caught her eye.

In the far corner of the Faithful Bride, a man sat hunched over a table, a half-drunk bottle of rum clutched in his hand. He was dirty and ragged, and his face was unshaven. He wore a matted wig over his long snarled brown hair. It wasn't this that struck her so strangely. What she found arresting was the worn coat he wore, which must once have been the very fine uniform of a Navy officer.

* * *

Mary snaked through the crowd. Her eyes met the stare of a piggish man, his eyes watery and bulging, his skin jaundiced. He averted his gaze as she shoved past him. It was only after he'd turned his back on her that he felt the sharp edge of a knife press against his throat. She stood behind him, her other hand grasping his wrist and her mouth to his ear. 

"Found something you like?" she whispered harshly.

He hastily shook his head.

"I didn't think so."

His hand unclenched and a bag of coins fell to the ground. "Consider yourself lucky that I am too preoccupied today to concern myself with you," he heard as she released him and he slumped to the ground. He turned around, but she- and the money- was gone.

* * *

James Norrington was a ruined man. He'd lost everything- his rank, his honour- for what? Chasing after a worthless pirate. Sparrow. The name made his skin crawl with loathing. He could have had the world. Instead he was surrounded by…this. He glanced at his squalid environment and took another long swig from his rum bottle. He could have had her. Oh, it was exactly Sparrow for whom she'd left him, but Norrington couldn't help but blame him. Elizabeth had given up the blacksmith. For himself. And Turner wouldn't have done a thing about it were it not for _Captain _Jack Sparrow. Somehow, he'd managed to bewitch them both. The former commodore slammed the bottle furiously on the table, letting rum slosh over the top. His shoulders slumped and his head fell heavily into his arms on the table. 

Sometime later- he could not be sure how long- he sensed someone next to him. He looked up bleary-eyed. It was a woman, however much she tried to disguise it with men's clothing. She had dark red hair which was pulled back to expose her soft face and delicate features. Norrington couldn't deny that she was pretty, in a simple unadorned fashion, but his eyes were drawn to something else. She wore the coat of a Navy officer, not unlike his own. But where his was in tatters, hers was meticulously kept. The adornments were polished and the cloth looked unfaded by age. He could only guess where she'd acquired it in this less than civil company. She spoke.

"It looked like you could use a drink," she said, indicating the glasses in she held. She looked sidelong at the almost empty bottle of rum. "On second thought, perhaps not."

"Did you come here to chastise me? Or did you have a higher purpose in mind?"

"Not at all," said the woman. "Although…" She pulled out the chair across from him and

sat down. "…I'm curious what an officer of the King's Navy is doing so far removed from civilized company. Are you a renegade, Sir?"

Norrington's eyes flashed. "Don't insult me, Miss," he said bitterly.

"I'm sorry," the woman said softly. "No, I see you could be no more flawed in character than my dead husband."

Norrington's head was bowed. His eyes were downcast as he struggled to hold onto his last shred of dignity, as the burden of the past months threatened to snatch it from him. His hand had clenched into a fist on the table. He felt hers move across his and grip it tightly. He looked up. Her eyes carried the pain of his. They were the same.

The oversized coat gaped along her collarbone. Norrington's eyes traced the line of her neck to her shoulder where he could see a faint design. He recognized the brand.

"Bloody Mary Flint," he murmured.

"No," she said. "Just Mary."


End file.
